They Call It Trust
by Delgodess
Summary: You've met The Batman five times in your life and you still don't know what to make of him.
1. First

**They Call It Trust**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman: Arkham Asylum or any of its characters. And if I did, I would have no idea what to do with them. So, I'll just leave them to the professionals.**

* * *

You are a Thug.

Life hasn't been easy, but hey, that's Gotham for you. The people you've worked for call you the muscle and tell you to leave your brain at home, especially when you're on a job. You chose not to argue because, really, it isn't worth the bruises you'd have to deal with.

It's on one such job that you in counter _him_.

The Batman.

The other men joke while they play poker, as if a run in with the Bats is no big deal, but you know better. You've talked with some survivors and even though they're no flops themselves, there's something about the way they speak that sends a shiver down your spine.

It's nearly one in the morning, the time the package is supposed to arrive and you are nervous. You decide to get some fresh air, wanting to cool your head and get rid of your jitters.

It is unusually silent outside, so when the black van pulls up to the warehouse, it seems as if the driver is being loud on purpose. You nod at the men as they file out, all but one sporting a machine gun.

It isn't unusual for both parties to be armed, so you shrug it off, gesturing to the door with your head and leaning up against the worn steel wall, ignoring the way the peeling paint crunches against your spine, leaving flakes of blue on your dark shirt.

The unarmed one has a metal briefcase cuffed to his wrist and he nods too, though the way he eyes you sends up a red flag. They enter and you move to follow, but something holds you back.

Maybe it was their faces, the hard lines tense. Or maybe it was the way they held their weapons, fingers a little too close to their triggers for comfort. Whatever it was, you decide to stay put, frowning as you rationalize the sudden feeling of unease as an upset stomach.

You breathe in the cold night air deeply, shivering. You regret not bringing your coat, beginning to daydream about its warmth, when suddenly raised voices shatter your drifting thoughts. Guns fire and you reach for the door, realizing too late that this was a set up and those guys never meant to bring what the Boss wanted.

Your hand is closing around the doorknob as a thud sounds behind you and you whirl around, arm up to block a flying punch. Releasing the door, you shove back at your attacker, kicking out with a booted foot and catching him in the ribs. Your fists come up, protecting your face as you mentally prepare yourself for a fight. But nothing could have prepared you for the sight that met your eyes.

The figure was dressed in black, strange armor rippling as he rushed you. You take in the pointed tips on his head, the long, billowing cape snapping behind him and in the split second before his hardened fist connects with your face, you realized who he is.

You wake up with a pounding head ache, the sound of many voices hammering in your ears. Your back hurts and as you rise, you find yourself sitting on a hard bunk, surrounded by bars. When the deputy comes in to do your paperwork, he tells you that Batman brought you in.

And strangely, you find yourself feeling lucky, because he probably saved your life.

* * *

**AN: An experiment with second person.**

**Please review.**

**~Delgodess**


	2. Second

Months go by and eventually, you're let out. You've made some new contacts in prison who say there's a new Boss in town. You wander down to familiar haunts, taking new work and hooking up with friends, though you use the word lightly.

Life is good.

Or as good as it gets in the slums.

The night you signed up with The Joker was a turning point in your career. It wasn't just petty crimes you were committing or odd jobs for minor Mob bosses. It was real, it was good money and it was dangerous.

Only problem was, no one ever told you that once you get in with the freaks, you never get out.

You dip your hands into the paint, glaring at the greasy substance with distaste. Tonight was the night of Joker's big heist and you should feel privileged that you were one of the people he contacted after his break from Arkham. But your hands shake as you slather on the white paste, dipping a clean finger into a red jar and slowly pulling it out.

Twenty two and already you feel as if your life has gone down the drain, clowns and crazies laughing at you the whole way.

You look up to see your handiwork in the mirror, shocked at the gaunt eyes that stare back at you, the cavities surrounding them streaked with black.

It is a familiar mask you wear, but suddenly you find yourself unable to take the image and you grab a nearby rag, dragging it across your face furiously. The results aren't perfect and you know you'll have to wash it all off later, but for now you are satisfied.

You grab the gun leaning up against the cracked tile of this decrepit bathroom, flinging is strap over your shoulder and heading out.

You reach your destination just as the others are arriving, and though you get jabs about your lack of 'uniform', they shrug and you all pile into the ridiculous yellow van, the green smiley face painted on it obnoxiously happy.

The Mayor's house is lavish, obscenely so, and you wonder what one man could need with so many rooms. But it isn't your job to think, as you've been told, so you focus on guarding the door behind you as you listen to Joker's taunting voice while he both threatens and plays with the police on the phone.

There is a sudden crash, gunshots fired behind the closed doors at the end of the hall and you'd be an idiot not to know what is coming.

The man beside you his panting, muttering to himself that he should have stayed home and never listened to the Joker; You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the greenie, realizing that this might not be the best time.

The sudden silence in the other room is unnerving and your heart races, fear gripping you for the first time that night. You lick your lips nervously, annoyed that the man next to you seems to be having a panic attack.

Then the door across from you creaks open.

The hall is filled with light as your companion fires, creating new shadows in the room with each pull of the trigger. You curse, turning to stop the idiot, but freeze when you find him missing.

And you're suddenly terrified, because you realize, with shrieking dread, that you're the only thing standing between _him_ and the door.

The shadows move to your right and you turn your weapon, grunting when you're thrown to the ground and it flies from your hand. You move quickly, rolling onto the balls of your feet and lashing out with arms swinging. And it hurts, because he is so much faster that you are, but damn it, you are a Thug and it's your job on the line.

It never occurs to you that it's your life as well.

When you wake up in a Blackgate prison cell, bruised and bleeding, you wonder why it felt like he'd been pulling punches.


	3. Third

The transfer to Arkham Asylum went smoothly after the fire at Blackgate, if your lack of severe burns were anything to go by. The other inmates know the plan just as well as you do, but when the alarms finally start blaring, you can't believe how fast things are happening.

For a moment, you understand what the crazies see in The Joker and you feel a twinge of admiration.

Then he sends you, along with the rest of his goons, to the slaughter.

You jab the guard hard with the butt of your gun, nearly wincing when he falls to the ground, unconscious. Dragging him to an empty office and locking the door does little to silence your conscience, even if you _do_ try to make the stupid thing shut up.

Ivy's plants have already made their appearance, though if the withering was anything to go by, you'd say that the Bat's already got her.

You run for the Penitentiary, keeping cover and trying staying out of sight.

You've avoided The Joker for as long as you could, not keen of being turned into a slobbering brute. Or rather, a bigger, more powerful, slobbering brute.

When you get there, the pale man turns his yellow eyes to you, glaring thoughtfully. Then he sighs, shaking his head in disappointment and commenting about the help being too thin.

You sigh in relief, fingering your torn orange jump suit, deeply happy to be useless.

Next thing you know, you're on the roof, prepping fireworks with the rest of the clowns who managed to survive.

"Shi-" You cut yourself off, shoving bleeding fingers into your mouth and pushing the sharp wires winding around the fireworks into place with your other hand. You glance up, noticing how the others seem to be finishing as well.

The iron door leading into the building bursts open with a clang, the purple form of The Joker sauntering out with a blowtorch in hand.

It takes you a second to understand what he means to do, but when it clicks you fling yourself out of the way, backing towards the staircase as fire spreads to where you were just standing.

The explosive powder ignites, sending rockets screaming into the sky with loud bangs and brilliant color.

The Joker's laughing and you feel your skin crawl at the sound, wishing you could plug your ears without him noticing. You glimpse the other inmates around you, staring with the same horrified curiosity, when suddenly he stops, turning with a menacing glare.

"Well?" He snarls. "Get down there and greet our guest!"

We all scramble, flinching cheep party hats off the ground and trudging down to the entrance. You hold yours lightly, tracing the paper but not putting it on. In a way, it's just like the paint and you find yourself disgusted by it.

When the Bat arrives, he doesn't do anything at first. Just stands there as the 'party goers' cheer him on.

Then he's flying through the air, bodily brawling with the men now closing in on him.

You stand back and watch it all.

When he's finished, he stands to his full height and you flinch, taking in the man as he shifts though the shadows towards you, footsteps unnervingly silent and torn black cape trailing slowly behind him. What really gets you though, is his face. His mask is horrifying, like a nightmare and your knuckles turn white in your fisted hands as you watch him approach. He pauses, regarding your trembling form and you dare to meet his eyes. You can barely make them out in the darkness, but somehow you know what he's asking.

And this time, you do what needs done.

You step aside.


	4. Fourth

You cough, blood splattering on your hand.

You hadn't thought The Joker would catch you so quickly, but obviously, you were wrong.

You remember your desperate escape from Arkham Island, swimming in the murky bay and hulling yourself onto land by the docks. From there, it was just a matter of disappearing again.

But you had missed something, forgetting that the green-haired freak had eyes all over the island that night and the foyer was no different. He'd seen what happened with the Bats and hunted you down until you had nowhere left to run.

A gurgling moan fell from your lips and you stagger, sliding down the crumbling brick wall of this deserted alley. You know you are somewhere in the Warehouse District and you also know that you're _nowhere_ near help.

The razor thin cuts on your body burn, the wounds not deep enough to kill you, The Joker couldn't have _that_, but they _are_ enough to scar. Killing you wasn't Joker's intent when he strapped you to that table, no, that would be too easy. And not nearly enough fun.

He wanted you to suffer, to make an example of you, so that all the other little cronies would think twice before helping The Batman.

As if stepping aside and letting Joker get what was coming to him was 'helping'.

Still, you should have seen it coming. Your defection had been long in the works and The Joker had noticed.

Pity.

You cough again, blood frothing in your mouth before you can spit it out. A voice in your head that sounds far too much like Harley tells you that you're lucky he didn't screw with your face too bad, or at least, nothing bad enough that it couldn't be fixed.

A ragged laugh tears from your lungs and you freeze, trying to hold still as the waves of agony pass. Distantly, you realize that though you won't die from the wounds themselves, you will die from internal bleeding if left untreated. The Joker must have hit you too hard when he was trying to get you to stop screaming.

One moment you're alone, wheezing next to a broken drainage pipe and the next, someone is standing over you, boots made from some form of Kevlar, inches from your limp hand. You strain to turn your head, letting it flop into a rancid puddle by your face as you look up.

And there he is, looming in all his dark, mysterious glory. You're staring, you know you are, but he isn't saying anything. Come to think of it, he's never said anything to you. You wonder why this time would be any different.

When he speaks, it takes a moment to register over the pain.

"Why don't you just stop?"

You stare at the figure towering over you for a moment, trying to blink back the white dots in your vision and wondering if he'll understand, if he could even _get it_.

Unconsciousness is threatening and you finally give in, closing your eyes and turning your head away. You clutch your bleeding chest, moaning softly, before replying through chapped lips, the sound barely audible.

"Can't."

You wake up in the hospital.


	5. Last

You'd never thought collage was an option before, what with your background, but with a little digging and the nest egg you still had left over from your 'exploits' with The Joker, you found that it was quite possible. You still had a criminal record, but you served some time and were able to get back into the world.

It wasn't a full pardon and you still have probation; you have to meet with an officer once a week; but you're young with plenty of time to change and you think the court took that into consideration when they looked over your case.

You had to change your name of course; didn't want The Joker coming after you, but that's ok. You weren't that attached to it anyways.

"Hey, HEY." The girl shoves you in the arm and your hand automatically moves to throw her off, but you stop, holding back at the last second. Sudden movements still cause negative reactions, but you're working on it. You eye her, sighing with relief when it seems she hadn't noticed.

Her smile is bright and her voice is excited as she leans closer.

"Can you _believe_ that Mr. Wayne is coming to our school? I can't! It's like I'm dreaming or something."

You smile politely, something you're also not used to, but play along. She wanted so badly to go to this press conference, and though you really couldn't care about some pampered rich boy, it makes her happy. She is a nice girl from a decent family and you really, _really_ want to impress her. Thing is, you don't know how. You had a lucky break with this whole school wide assembly thing.

You shuffle in with the rest of the crowd, hating how cramped it is and how many people seem to be brushing against your shoulders. But she's holding your hand, pulling you closer to the stage and suddenly there's cheering, a man dressed in a thousand dollar suit walking up the ramp and shaking hands with the school's Director.

There's words spoken, praise for the Wayne Industries and all their generous contributions, but you toon them out, uninterested. She's let go of your hand, the masses pushing you away from her, and you struggle to get back.

Then a voice rings out; loud and eerily familiar.

You freeze, head turning slowly to face the person at the microphone.

His hair is black and cut fashionably, body confidant and face charismatically fixed on the crowd. The people love him, calling out, but all you can do is stand there, because you've seen those eyes, you've heard that dark voice in a filthy alley, the night you nearly died.

He finishes, waving, bright eyes scanning the sea of faces and passing over yours.

You let out a nervous breath, but suddenly he's glancing back at you, gaze calculating, despite his grinning face.

And even though he's smiling that billion dollar smile at the lady on stage, you can _feel_ his sharp his eyes on your back as you hurry through the auditorium doors. And you _know_, without a _doubt_, that he'll track you down.

When you find yourself facing him in a dark alley on the way home, you tense, because _God_, you were so tired of being beat up.

"Just leave me alone, ok? I won't say nothing."

You are ashamed how close it sounds to begging, but you just got your life in order and you didn't want to go to class in the morning looking like someone took a bat to your face.

He's silent, hovering there and watching you in that weird way that he does.

Then he swoops away, the shadows flickering behind him as his last words hang in the air.

"I trust you."

When you finally reach your rundown apartment, sagging pathetically against the door, you let out a disbelieving laugh.

Because you can't help it.

The Batman said he trusted a Thug.


End file.
